


Your Heart Is A Muscle

by rootsky



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Emotionally Constipated Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, First Kiss, Getting Together, Introspection, M/M, Pining Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Songfic, huffing, no beta we die like vesemir, so much huffing, this accidently became a 5+1
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-08
Updated: 2020-09-08
Packaged: 2021-03-06 19:07:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,174
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26333848
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rootsky/pseuds/rootsky
Summary: Jaskier hums the opening bars to the song, and Geralt tenses beside him.“You don’t like this song,” Jaskier states.“Hm.”“Why?”“I don’t know. I can’t explain it.”Jaskier has a new song, and Geralt cannot bear to hear it (for reasons he chooses not to analyze).
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 27
Kudos: 181





	Your Heart Is A Muscle

**Author's Note:**

> [Heart Is A Muscle - Decorator](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ZRgiZqnpIPQ)

Gods forbid Jaskier ever hears him say this, lest it go to his head, but the bard is good—a master of his craft, quite honestly. It is no surprise he graduated Oxenfurt, summa cum laude, with all seven liberal arts. Far from the fresh-faced boy he had met in Posada, the bard now has a decade’s worth of experience under his belt. Not only in the technical skills of a musician, but experience of life and heartbreak and danger and sorrow itself. He understands the human psyche in a way Geralt knows he never could and never will. And Jaskier weaves it all into his songs, with every carefully chosen word, progression, and melody. It is obvious in the way barmaids giggle and wink at him when he sings lovely ditties. It is subtle in the way blacksmiths’ eyes tear up when he sings particularly mournful dirges. His music speaks to people’s very souls. And, whether learned from experience or innate ability, Jaskier excels in reading the crowd, knowing exactly what his audience wants to hear and when.

Tonight’s crowd, apparently, is pining.

_“This lonely feeling never stops_

_This heart, it beats around the clock_

_You never seem to understand_

_So, I just drown myself in alcohol”_

Not a bad idea.

Geralt had only heard the first two strums of Jaskier’s next number when his fingers involuntary squeezed the tankard of ale he had been nursing. This _fucking_ song. He doesn't know why it affects him so much. It is just like every other one of Jaskier’s. Except that it’s not. None of them are alike, really. He pours so much of himself into his compositions that each comes out with a different piece of Jaskier in it. That being said, never, in the years that they had travelled together, had Geralt found one of his songs so inciting, so aggravating, for apparently no reason at all. Even _Toss A Coin_ , though annoying, he has to respect for its impact.

He flags down the barmaid for another tankard. He will not suffer tonight sober.

* * *

Geralt raps on the door with considerable force, not caring for the hour of night that it is. The piece of shit ealdorman had lied to him. Before he can voice this thought, however, the door opens. An old man stands in the doorway, dressed in a ragged nightshirt and a scowl on his face. But those eyes widen upon seeing who it was that had woken him up at this ungodly hour. Geralt supposes he is a sight to be seen—dirt and nekker blood caking his skin, his hair a haggard bird’s nest, his leather armor and gauntlets torn by the nekkers’ claws. He stands lopsided, avoiding putting weight on his left leg. The most menacing part is likely his expression, lips drawn back and teeth bared. He looks positively wolf-like.

The ealdorman quickly schools his stricken face into a scowl again.

“What do you want, witcher?”

“You lied to me.”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” he lies, knowing exactly what the witcher is referring to.

“You said ten nekkers in the nest, a dozen at most. There were thirty there, at least.”

“And? You dealt with it, didya not? I don’t see what you have to complain about.” The ealdorman holds out a coin purse to the witcher. Geralt does not reach for it. He clenches his fists instead.

“I killed thirty nekkers,” Geralt growls, eyeing the pouch. “We agreed ten crowns per nekker. I deserve to be paid accordingly.”

“You deserve nothing, mutant. We agreed to a hundred crowns, so that is what you get. You’re lucky I’m paying you at all.” The ealdorman throws the pouch at the ground and slams the door shut. Geralt swears. Had Jaskier been here, maybe this would have gone differently. But as it is, Geralt is in pain and dirty and tired. All he wants is alcohol to numb his leg, a bath to wash the stench off, and bed to collapse into. None of which will be possible if the ealdorman calls his friends to stone him out of the village.

Bending down to retrieve the coin purse hurts more than it should. Gritting his teeth, Geralt surveys the cobblestone road before him. To his left is the inn. With luck, Jaskier has already arranged a room for them. The hundred crowns would be enough for a bath at least. To his right is the tavern, lights on and doors open. The familiar sounds of music playing and people singing along spills out into the street. Jaskier is having a good night.

Geralt’s stomach rumbles, seemingly making the decision for him.

He winces as he makes his way down the street. The uneven path makes walking on his injured leg all the more unpleasant. Stumbling over a particularly large stone, his leg throbs from the movement. _Fucking nekkers lying whoreson ealdorman fucking road out to get my fucking leg—_

Lost in his mental tirade, he does not recognize the song Jaskier is playing until he has already stepped into the building.

_“This lonely feeling never ends_

_Never seems to make amends_

_Fire, fire, do you know what I mean?_

_Your lies affect me”_

No. He cannot deal with this tonight, too. Geralt pivots on his right leg and walks straight out.

* * *

It had been a longer hunt than usual. Autumn is ending, and the animals are beginning to hide for the winter. This is likely the last night they will spend together for the season, before Geralt turns northeast to Kaer Morhen and Jaskier west to Oxenfurt. They had stayed together later this season than they usually do, but winter always marks an end for their travels together.

Geralt approaches quietly, holding two rabbits, only to find Jaskier has already set up the fire and camp and has now settled with his back against a tree, lute in hand. Jaskier has not noticed him yet. Despite the possible dangers of the forest surrounding him, the bard sits lost in thought, completely enraptured by his lute. The fire flickers in front of him and casts his face in orange light. Gaunt shadows flash in and out across his cheeks and brow. He quietly strums, half singing along, half humming. Geralt pauses and listens to the song that Jaskier is part-way through.

It is the same song from the tavern, from the inn. But here, in the quiet woods, next to the quiet fire, it sounds so different. Without the winks and flirts and embellishments that Jaskier usually adds when he plays, with these slow melodic strums, it is wistful and pensive. Geralt does not know how he wants to interpret that.

_“This lonely feeling never stalls_

_Just never seems to want to resolve_

_These things they seem to never dissolve_

_So, I just kill myself with all my flaws”_

The Path is lonesome. It was before Jaskier, and it will be long after. That is simply the way things are. Towns sit far from each other, and even when within them, people keep away from the witcher. They whisper amongst themselves as he passes, as if he cannot hear their every insult and rumor. In taverns, he sits alone, unless discussing a contract. And even then, they give curt details and even curter replies, saying no more than is necessary. More often than not, a witcher finds his steed to be his most consistent and considerate conversation partner.

But Jaskier—Jaskier offers small reprieve. His running commentary and mumbled lyrics and soft strumming fill the waking days. He talks to Geralt constantly, about the pretty flowers in that clearing to the side— _oh Geralt, are you sure we can’t stop for a bit. I think I see some Beggartick blossoms over there_ —about the gorgeous tailor from the last village— _You should have seen her, Geralt. She had legs for days_ —about his latest poem— _I really do think Toussaintian alexandrine is underappreciated. I mean everyone is always raving about iambic pentameter, which is great and all, but hardly revolutionary in this day and age. And there is so much more you can do in twelve syllables than in ten_. Geralt gives the occasional grunt but otherwise remains silent atop Roach. And Jaskier continues on, seemingly unbothered by the rather one-sided nature of their conversations. Lately, these sounds have settled into the background noise of the forest, as in place as the breeze rustling the treetops, or the stream gurgling in the distance, or the birds chirping up above.

Geralt does not know when the bard’s constant noise had stopped being grating and unnatural much in the same way in which he does not know when he had started dreading their parting of ways. But the trip up the Blue Mountains or the first few weeks of spring before Jaskier has found Geralt—or Geralt has found Jaskier, more recently—have begun to feel wrong with their relative quiet.

Winter is when they part. It always has been, and it always will be. In any case, Geralt has no right to ask for more, no way to ask for more. Jaskier swirls around Geralt, weaving in and out of his Path, joining and leaving and rejoining as he sees fit, with little consideration for the witcher’s desires. He is smoke. He fills Geralt’s lungs, and he smothers him. He leaves, and his essence sticks to Geralt’s clothes, Geralt’s nose, for days on end. He is without home and without master, and the witcher has no right to chain the bard to himself, especially over something so pathetic as feeling lonely. He was lonely before Jaskier, and he will soon be lonely long after.

And that is the crux of it, is it not? Jaskier is not permanent. Yes, he flickers in and out of Geralt’s life, and for now he always returns, but that will not always be the case. Eventually, he will tire—of this life, of the Path, of Geralt. He will rise above the witcher, and he will fly away. He will settle down in some court or other to live out the rest of his days, and he will die. Or else, he will follow Geralt as he grows old, and he will die. Eventually, some monster or the terrain or sickness will get to him, and he will die. One time, Geralt will be too slow to save him, and he will die. And the witcher will be alone once more.

No. It is best to not grow attached to something so fleeting. Otherwise, he will become complacent and hopeful. Otherwise, it will hurt so much more when the bard does leave.

And so, the witcher sits on the far side of the campfire and he denies the bard when he calls them friends and he holds his tongue and he does not invite him to Kaer Morhen for the winter. He has no right to ask anyway.

Geralt purposefully steps on a twig to alert Jaskier to his presence. The song stops momentarily as the bard lifts his head and beams when he sees Geralt with dinner in hand. Suddenly, a cold, mocking wind blows through the clearing, and the campfire roars to life.

He watches as the smoke rises up and away, into the starry night.

* * *

The sun beats down on their backs—and were it later into the year maybe it would have been sweltering, but as it is, the warmth is welcome against the biting air. Patches of snow still lie here and there under trees and rocks. The witcher looks up and watches as a flock of geese flies in the direction they had just come from, a vee pointing north. It is spring, and Geralt breathes easy for the first time in weeks.

Winter this year had been strange, to say the least.

He had arrived at the keep restless, and that feeling had never really gone away. The whole season he had been on edge—grumpy, fidgeting, picking fights with his brothers. Lambert and Eskel, of course, found the whole situation hilarious. They whispered and laughed between themselves, which did nothing to alleviate Geralt’s mood. It had gotten so bad that Vesemir had called him out on it. Geralt had no explanation to give him. He chose not to analyze why that was.

Winter is supposed to be a time of relaxation, an escape from the human world. It is supposed to be a time to take his armor off and lay his sword to rest, breathe easy with the knowledge that, for the first time in months, he was truly and actually safe. Nevertheless, as soon as the mountain pass had opened up, Geralt was on the Path again, ready to escape the stifling keep.

He had sent word to Oxenfurt that he was heading out earlier than usual, quite honestly not expecting a response. There were still three weeks left in the winter semester. He made his way southwest through Kaedwen, before unexpectedly running into Jaskier in Flotsam. Now the pair find themselves wandering town to town through Temeria, with no particular destination in mind.

Geralt rides on Roach watching the bard walk ahead, lute in hand, serenading the trees—as Jaskier like to call it. He is singing that song, the one that had been an earworm in Geralt’s head all winter long.

_“Heart is a muscle, baby_

_Oh, your heart is a muscle, baby_

_Oh, your heart is a muscle you can't slow down”_

Geralt huffs, and Jaskier spins on his heel.

“Something funny?” he asks, halfway to offended. He continues to walk backward, confident in the witcher to tell him if he is about to collide with anything.

“Hmm.”

“No, you huffed. You never huff unless you have something to say. So, out with it.”

“Nothing, I just—” Geralt tries. “The irony is that you can slow a heart down.” Jaskier knits his brows in confusion.

“Whatever do you mean?”

Geralt looks away, suddenly somber. But he started this conversation, and he feels he owes the man some sort of answer. He takes a moment to formulate his response.

“Through poisons administered to boys too young to understand what they are about to become.”

“Oh,” Jaskier all but whispers. “Yes, well, it’s meant more—ah—metaphorically, you see.”

“Of course.”

Jaskier switches genres and tempos, mindful of the mood he had inadvertently caused, but Geralt cannot get the lyrics out of his head. He has never listened this far into the song before, always finding a distraction or willfully ignoring it partway through. Never before has he heard this verse. His mind repeats the lines over and over. Your heart is a muscle.

Geralt knows of muscles. He knows the pain of straining and tearing them in battle. He knows the awkwardness when they grow in too quickly in preteen boys injected with hormones. He knows the pain he can so easily cause in humans when he forgets his strength.

He knows of hearts, as well. He knows the beating of a liar, nervous of getting caught. He knows the sound of fear for one’s life and family. He knows the pitter-patter of a heart in love, and the slightly slower beat of one that is aroused.

Whereas the mouth and brain can lie, the heart cannot. Take Jaskier, for example.

He notices Jaskier’s heartbeat grow fast whenever he strips in front of the bard before a bath, or whenever they have to share a bed barely big enough for one, or whenever he makes a particularly raunchy joke, or whenever they stand too close together and he can vividly watch the blush appear on Jaskier’s cheeks, or—

Needless to say, Geralt is not an idiot. And because he is not an idiot, Geralt knows that acting on this attraction is a bad idea. Because Jaskier loves quickly, and he loves easily. He flits from infatuation to infatuation. Geralt would be surprised if the man has ever held a romantic relationship for longer than a few months.

And so, _if_ Geralt were to be with Jaskier, to really _be_ with him, how long could that last? How long until the novelty of laying with a witcher wears off? How long until Jaskier sates his curiosity, and he moves on, when Geralt cannot? Because Geralt is not Jaskier. He does not love often, but when he does—it does not end well. To get a taste, for a moment, only to have it drift away at the bard’s next fancy? That would be an injury Geralt’s heart cannot take.

If only Jaskier would retire this blasted song already.

Geralt hears a thud and a yelp, looking up to see Jaskier sprawled on the ground at the base of a tree. The path had veered to the right, but Jaskier, having been walking backwards, had simply continued straight, into a moderately-sized elm on the side of the road.

“Geralt!” the man whines. “Why didn’t you warn me?”

The witcher huffs, again, for effect.

* * *

Another week, another town, another inn. Jaskier is halfway through his set as Geralt sits in the corner with his ale. People, it seems, are more generous with their coin when the very subject of the songs is sitting in the same room. Geralt would have left long ago, but Jaskier had begged him to stay for a while longer.

“Think of the coin,” he had said. “I earn so much more when you stay. You don’t have to do anything, just sit in that corner all pretty and drink and brood as you usually do. And I know you’ve been meaning to get Roach new shoes. How can you deny her that?”

Geralt sighed and sat back down. Jaskier beamed, convinced that his appeal to Roach’s wellbeing had won him the argument. Geralt had not been about to correct him. It would not do the bard any good to know that the witcher could not refuse him anything.

The night had started out all right, but by now the cheering of the audience is bordering from grating to deafening, the piss-poor ale sits like ash in Geralt’s mouth, and the hot, muggy summer air invades his nostrils. His skin itches from the six days of sweat and grime stuck to it. But still, Geralt stays. He grits his teeth and hopes the scowl on his face is not too revealing of the sensory overload bombarding him, and he stays.

In between songs, Jaskier’s gaze sweeps the room and lands on a girl sitting in the front row. She is beautiful, in a way. Long, blond hair frames her face. She sits with her legs crossed, her finger twirling a lock. The way her arms are positioned intentionally pushes her bosom up and outward. Jaskier appraises her up and down before throwing her a wink. He will not be spending tonight alone.

Then his eyes move and find Geralt. The bard takes notice of his clenched fists and pinched expression. Understanding flits across his face. He grimaces and nods toward the stairs. Grunting, Geralt takes one last swig of ale and gets up to leave, wondering when he had started waiting for permission to do what he wants.

Jaskier has moved on and started his next song before Geralt is even halfway up the steps.

There is already a tub in their room. By now, the water temperature has faded to lukewarm, and were it any other season, that would be irritating. But in this stifling summer air, the cool relief is welcome.

Beyond that, however, upstairs offers little reprieve. The inn had only had one room left when they had arrived, and, of course, it was the one just above the main room. The music and cheering from below seeps in through the floorboards.

Geralt submerges his head under the water in an effort to drown it all out. It’s good. The itch, the stench, the noise fades into the background, muffled. Free of his senses, Geralt allows his mind to drift. He is running low on Tawny Owl. Hopefully this town has an herbalist so he can buy verbena and arachas venom to replenish the potion. And Roach really does need new horseshoes. They had passed a blacksmith on the way in. He had been about to ask for rates when Jaskier had pulled him away, eagerly blabbing about a bakery nearby or something of the sort—

A loud cheer from down below startles Geralt out of his thoughts. He lifts his head out of the water and listens, imagining the scene below.

_“Take me_

_Oh, take me for a fool_

_Oh, maybe on a summer morning_

_I can be your tool”_

Jaskier sings. This song is rather popular. It has swept the taverns already, and the drunken crowd happily belts along. Jaskier winks whenever he sings this verse. Though the moan he made on the line _“take me_ ” was more sultry than usual. Perhaps he is wooing someone in particular tonight. The girl from the front row. She blushes and crosses her legs the other way round, and Jaskier’s eyes do not leave her for the rest of the performance.

When he is finished for the night, he nods to the girl before retreating to the back corner, the very one Geralt had inhabited only an hour earlier. The girl gets up and makes her way toward him. They exchange few words before she is straddling his lap and looping her arms around his neck. They are secluded in the corner, still very much in the public room, but hidden away from the main crowd. Their kissing, though chaste at first, has grown quick and desperate. Jaskier’s callused fingers bury themselves in her long hair. They drag against her scalp, and she moans into his mouth—

Geralt had not realized when his hand had slipped beneath the surface of the water, hovering just above his half-hard member. He quickly submerges his head again to muffle this train of thought, along with the music that had caused it in the first place.

He gets out of the tub, mechanically pats himself dry with the wash linen, and makes his way to the bed. Shame washes over him. Shame over using his companion in such a way. Shame over how close he had gotten to the line which he had promised himself years ago he would never cross.

When Jaskier stumbles into the room some hours later, smelling of contentment and—strangely—not of sex, Geralt does not breathe relief. Feinting sleep, he listens as Jaskier rummages around, getting ready for bed. The bard is loud. It’s an innate quality. But now, in the summer quiet, it seems especially pronounced. His heart beats loud and fast—likely still riding his post-performance high. He is humming that blasted song under his breath. In the darkness, he stubs his toe on the small bedside table and lets out a soft _fuck_ before getting into the other bed. The sheets rustle as he settles in. His breathing evens out, but it is still audible. The mix of alcohol and singing the entire night had made him a bit winded coming up the stairs. Eventually, Jaskier settles down and stops moving. The breaths transform into soft snores.

This is a song that Geralt will never want to stop hearing.

The witcher does not sleep that night, and he listens.

* * *

They have settled in a clearing in the woods once more. Roach is tied to a nearby tree. Their bedrolls are already laid out, but neither makes a move toward them. Though the autumn breeze is cold, the fire warms them well enough. Geralt lays, with his legs outstretched, his right arm folded behind his head, and his left raised to accept the almost-empty bottle of Mahakam mead Jaskier absent-mindedly holds out to him. They have been passing it back and forth for the past hour. Geralt brings the bottle to his mouth, ignoring the passing thought that Jaskier’s lips were just on it.

He looks up at the stars, pensive, yet thinking of nothing in particular. Jaskier sits to his side, fiddling with his lute. They are close enough that their thighs are touching. The bard is playing that song again, but with a stomach full of venison and mead and a beautiful, clear sky above them, Geralt cannot bring himself to be annoyed.

_“Waste me_

_Oh, I'm no good for you_

_Oh, maybe on a winter morning_

_I'll see you in a year or something”_

Geralt’s mind flashes to another campfire, a year ago exactly. The bard, sitting relaxed as he is now, the fire throwing shadows across his face, playing this exact song.

He thinks of how miserable that winter had been.

Blame it on the alcohol or his relaxed mindset or any other number of factors, but before he can stop, Geralt finds himself blurting out, “Come to Kaer Morhen with me.”

Jaskier looks down at the witcher, and his eyes widen as he processes what he just heard.

“To Kaer Morhen? With you?”

“That is, only if you would like to. I should not have presumed—never mind. Ignore me.” He has no right to ask. He never should have asked.  
  
“No, no, it’s just—this is rather sudden. I mean, you’ve never mentioned anything of the sort before, not that I haven’t thought about it, but you’ve never even hinted—”

“Jaskier, it’s alright. Forget I said anything.”  
  
“No! No, I—where is this coming from?”

Geralt looks away, scrambling for a reason behind his accidental outburst.

“I thought it would be something you might enjoy,” he tries. “The keep’s library is large and holds many tomes, and there are often other witchers there who could tell you more than I can. For your ballads, that is.”

“Oh?” Jaskier’s eyes narrow, and a smirk that has no right exist creeps onto his face. “And for no other reason?”

“And—and I would not begrudge your company for a while longer,” Geralt lets out, abashed.

He dares a glance at Jaskier. The man’s cheeks are lightly flushed, from the mead most likely. He wonders if his face is the same, if Jaskier can somehow tell how warm he feels. His gaze falls to the man’s lips, which are slightly parted in an expression that can only be described as thoughtful surprise, but he makes no sound. It is nerve-wracking, having the bard be so quiet.

Geralt looks away again, mind buzzing with alcohol and regret. Leave it to him to ruin the nice evening. He never should have asked. He has no right to ask.

Jaskier hums the opening bars to the song, and Geralt tenses beside him.

“You don’t like this song,” Jaskier states.

“Hm.”

“Why?”

“I don’t know. I can’t explain it.”

“Geralt?”

“Hm?”

“Please don’t hit me for this.”

Before he can ask what “this” is and voice his indignation over how he has not hit the bard since that first time and he never will again, he sees those flushed cheeks get closer and closer until—

Jaskier’s lips press against his, chaste, sweet, and questioning. He freezes, not quite believing that this is happening, his mind quite unhelpfully abandoning him in a blank stupor. The kiss holds for one second, another, and Jaskier is pulling away, as quickly as he came. His cheeks are even redder than before. He opens his mouth, likely to stutter out an apology, but Geralt beats him to it. He reaches up and grabs Jaskier by the front of his shirt, hauling the man down onto himself and crashing their lips together. Jaskier lets out an undignified yelp before melting into the kiss.

They stay like that for a while, before Jaskier pulls away. He sits back on Geralt’s thighs and pants, out of breath.

“To be honest, I didn’t quite expect that to work,” he giggles.

Geralt smile drops. “Do you honestly think so low of me?”

“No, no. You’ve simply never given any indication, I suppose.”

“No, I suppose I didn’t. I had no right to.”

“You had every right to. You’re—well—you. You’re Geralt!”

“Exactly. I cannot—that is to say, I—,” he huffs, annoyed at the words not forming in his mouth. “I am not you,” he settles on.

“Well, yes, I should sure hope that that is the case.”

“No, I mean—I do not, I don’t love like you.”

“And I don’t expect you to.”

Geralt huffs, again. Jaskier is missing the point.

“I cannot give you what you want, what you deserve.”  
  
Jaskier huffs back. “Geralt, you’ve given me more than I ever asked for. You have been the one constant in the best decade of my life. You think I would run from that? I’m not leaving any time soon.”

“And after that? After soon?”

Jaskier sits pensive for a moment, before whispering.

“Is that it? Is my mortality giving you scruples?” He jabs an accusatory finger into Geralt’s chest. “And what about your mortality, huh? What about the hunts when I watch from the sidelines as a kikimore queen slashes your side, and I stand there, helpless, as you collapse into the swamp?” His voice wavers but grows louder. “What about the nights when I stay up late, nervous, pacing, out of my mind, worrying if you’ll ever come back, and in what shape that’ll be?” He fists Geralt’s shirt and pulls himself closer. “What about the weeks I have spent sleeping in uncomfortable chairs, holding your unconscious hands as you lay in healers’ beds for days on end, wondering if you’ll ever wake up again?” His breath is hot and salty on Geralt’s face. “What about your mortality?”

“I’m a wit—”

“You’re a goddamn hypocrite, Geralt of Rivia. That’s what you are.”

The witcher looks up at the bard with pleading eyes. How can he make him understand that he does not deserve this devotion, that there are better causes in life to give oneself to? He opens his mouth to respond, but once again, the words do not form.

Jaskier sees his desperation and decides to spare the witcher. He has made his point.

“Besides, is it not you who always says to take what you can get when you can? That it is better to eat bread fresh than save it for when it stales and takes up room in our packs?” he jokes instead.

“You are not a piece of bread,” Geralt defends, affronted. “You are a person.”

“That I am, my own person. So how about I decide what exactly it is that I want and deserve?” Jaskier leans down to kiss him again.

“So,” Geralt breathes against his lips. “Is that a yes?” Jaskier’s face grows confused for a second, before realizing he had never actually given the witcher an answer. He smiles and closes the gap between them.

“Yes, yes, yes,” he repeats through kisses. “Of course, yes.”

Geralt’s heart swells.

**Author's Note:**

> I'm a long-time reader, first-time writer, so I hope this turned out alright.
> 
> Yes, this is a songfic, fight me. Consider checking out [Jaskier's totally-not-about-Geralt-he-swears spotify playlist](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/1njKooCkW3R8GmZE4gEXfP?si=X9NvtCfTTayG-uvyhBFx-Q)
> 
> Comments are love <3


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